


Dr. and Mistress Up-to-No-Good

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, F/F, Femdom, Rope Bondage, Shoes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:46:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story told in River's chronology from Irene's (mostly) point of view. Kinky and things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dr. and Mistress Up-to-No-Good

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I watch a very suspenseful bit of DW Series 6 and then can't sleep. Spoilers for A Scandal in Belgravia, no real spoilers past Series 4 for Doctor Who though I imagine these scenes taking place somewhere between Eleventh and Twelfth Doctors for River's timeline.

"Never underestimate the power of a good hallucinogenic lippie," Doctor Song advises as The Woman screws the cap open on a lovely matte coral. Irene smiles and tucks the gift away in her dressing table, but responds with a coy smile. 

 

"I admit, I have a more traditional take on concealed weapons." She tips a jeweled clutch open and River gives the silver Beretta inside an approving glance. 

 

"Oh honey," she purrs. "That too."

 

~~~~

 

John Watson has no idea what to think of the woman who shows up unannounced, like so many of their visitors, but then zeroes in on Sherlock's riding crop in the corner, which is decidedly _not._  


 

"Mycroft sent you," Sherlock declares, and she snaps the thing in a quick downward diagonal motion that makes John start even as his flatmate watches her passively.

 

"Good," she muses, neither confirming nor denying but lifting the crop up to balance on her palms and then sliding it over one, coming to gently bend the fold of leather at one end of its handle. "Mine's a bit stiffer," she says, looking Sherlock in the eye, and John coughs once, hard. He's undecided whether he likes her.

 

~~~~

 

"What kind of doctor are you, anyway?" John asks her in the lab when she comes with a message Sherlock sets to deciphering straight away.

 

"Archeology."

 

Head bent over the crinkled stationery, Sherlock snorts. She hardly seems affected.

 

"Oh boys and your ever-so-hard sciences," she teases, holding John's eye steadily enough that he blushes in spite of himself. "Forensics and archeology are all the same in the end, though," River declares, turning on her heel and throwing breezily over her shoulder. "Sex and death, Doctor Watson. Sex and death."

 

~~~~

 

Sixteen hours after Sherlock Holmes saves her life for the last time, Irene Adler is getting tipsy at a tourist's bar in Ankara. Doctor Song looks like a proper archeologist when she comes in, hair wild and a toolbelt slung around her hips. 

 

"I'll teach you a new dance," River offers, and Irene laughs aloud. 

 

"I already know all the dances there are to dance," she proclaims, and the mysterious woman lifts her from the barstool nonetheless, yanking her close as if this is only a prelude, as if she hadn't already coaxed Irene's secrets out of her in the house in Belgravia a year before. And yet somehow she looks younger now, as if some weight has been lifted, some secret un-told.

 

"This one hasn't been invented yet," she boldly purrs, drawing Irene against her chest with a fire in her eyes that dares the barman to judge. Irene ponders that statement, feeling the shape of a pistol snug against her stomach, and she thinks she's starting to understand.

 

~~~~

 

"I'm not going to ask you to be a good girl," River says, frank as Irene kneels at her feet. She will kneel occasionally, though never for men and never for money. It's a selective pleasure. "You are, however, a phenomenal woman." River smiles a little and Irene smirks in reply, not denying it. "Give me that _wicked_ tongue," the woman demands, and then River's fingers are grasping slippery wet muscle, pulling Irene's tongue just out of her mouth, just for a moment. Those wet fingertips rhythmically slap Irene's cheek in an intimate escalation of stinging pain like a caress. It doesn't matter how many times Irene has used the same moves; she respects someone who knows her game. She doesn't need novel to submit, in fact she doesn't trust novel. Still, it's a delight when River yanks her back by the hair, stands and puts her fingers to Irene's mouth again. "Give me your tongue," she repeats, satin-voiced and cruel in her stare. Irene laves at her fingers, not attempting to imitate a blow job but tasting and swirling her tongue between them, worshipping a competent hand. Her eyes fall shut and she loses herself to the task until fingers hook down behind her bottom set of teeth and tug, bringing her to kneel up and inhale sharply. She can smell River from here, and the brown suede hugging River's calf brushes the sensitive side of her breast in a barely-there camisole.

 

"There we are," Doctor Song smiles. "Rope."

 

"In the armoire," Irene supplies. There's plenty else in there but it's the rope River brings to the kneeling woman, thin braided hemp in seven metre coils. She strips Irene of her shirt and bra first, makes Irene touch herself while she ties Irene's ankles with satin pumps still on, binding the shoe to the foot and then using the heels functionally as she takes Irene's hands away and ties wrists to the center line, achieving a form that bows Irene's back slightly but isn't unduly uncomfortable. Which means, Irene recognizes from her own cruel experiences, more, and River does not disappoint. 

 

The clamps come from the professor's own purse, well-made with a bite that isn't dangerous but holds weight, the metal jaws staying firmly attached to Irene's nipple when River clips on a chain and _tugs._ River sits first, then gets a good grip and positions the ball of her foot against Irene's mound, the sole of her boot just applying initial pressure to Irene's clit. She hisses and earns herself a tug on the chain, stimulation manageable at first but quickly finding a rhythm. River's sole rocks against her as she feels her knickers starting to soak through, and the bite of the clamps takes her higher, endorphin rush silencing the churn of a clever mind. She meets River's gaze when she dares, tips her head back when she doesn't, and groans as River starts tugging at the chain like she's a cowgirl and Irene's cunt is her stirrup. It's mad, and Irene barks out laugh before she comes, whimpering and cursing. She almost loses her balance but River is there, hand at the back of her neck, to keep her steady. 

 

"I'm glad I came back," River murmurs, and Irene doesn't ask for an explanation. 

 

"You're good," she says simply, and River laughs, seeming genuinely pleased with the compliment.

 

"Thank you honey," she says, and then adds something quieter, enigmatic. "I've had some practice. Makes a girl miss the future," she says, and then bites Irene's wrist, once, savage. Irene does not answer but she does reach up to stroke that untamable hair. 

 

~~~~

 

Later, Irene will feel the rasp of irritated skin against freshly trimmed hair as she jerks herself off and she will think quite fondly of her encounter with Doctor River Song, archeologist.

 


End file.
